Destiné
by Arylwren
Summary: Vaughn goes into an antique store and finds himself buying a picture frame and reflects on the women in his life while staring at a certain watch...Please review!!


[A/N: This was an experiment of sorts, trying out writing in the second person. I think the strange voice I used turned out decently, but leave a review and tell me what you thought! Considering it was written a while ago, this is all pretending that the kiss (and everything after that) didn't happen. While the action places this fic in terms of time in the first season, his reflections fit for any episode before the kiss (and subsequent breakup with Alice). Enjoy!]  
  
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Destiné  
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You don't know why you set foot in that antique store. Shopping had never been a pastime and after countless years of being dragged behind your mother, and then various girlfriends, little less than dire necessity compelled you to enter any store other than the supermarket and the sports equipment store. Despite the bone-weariness that comes from spending 18 of the last 24 hours at the office, you nevertheless walk in, inexplicably drawn by its dark recesses.   
  
There is no explanation why, upon entering, you ignore the extravagantly displayed objects in the window, which caught your eye when you walked by. Or why you pass right over the rows of glass cases, all filled with necklaces that would look nothing less than breath taking around any woman's throat.   
  
Instead, waving away any offers of help, you make your way straight to the back, where the antiquities that have remained unsold for five, seven, ten years are piled precariously on top of each other without order, covered in a layer of dust.  
  
You see it at the first glace. A glint shining out at you from underneath the carved bookends and countless enameled jewelry boxes. Carefully shifting the other items, you pull it out from beneath and examine your newly unburied hidden treasure, brushing away years worth of accumulated dust.   
  
A picture frame. The slight tarnish a tribute to its age, it lacks the shiny gaudiness of polished silver, but instead, gains the venerable stateliness of an object which has survived its share of years.    
  
It reminds you of _her_ in every way. Its design is simple but elegant, exquisite. The curvature delicate but its very survival a testament of its strength. Even in the dark, it seems to glow in your mind's eye.  
  
It is a wonder it has not been bought before this, but somehow, it had been passed over by the troves of antique hunters who had scavenged the store. You tell yourself it was luck, but deep down, you know better.  
  
The old lady sitting behind the cash register is surprised at your selection, the twinkle in her eyes and the slight upturning of her lips a compliment to your good taste. Her experienced shrewd eyes sees the frame for the treasure that it is but she did not expected you to know anything of buying antiques. With your professional suit, slightly wrinkled from long hours at a desk, and haggard eyes, you know you present the image of a young, good-looking businessman in search of a last minute anniversary present for your wife or girlfriend. Most of those never look beyond the cases of jewelry. Thankful, they point at the necklace with the most appropriate price tag attached, pull out a credit card, and order it wrapped.  
  
She rings up the purchase and, before you have a chance to make the request, carefully wraps the frame in layers of creamy tissue paper, and places it in a bag. Smiling at her in thanks, you hand over a hundred, knowing this to be the most expensive gift you have bought someone.  
  
Handing back the bag and your seven dollars of change, she smiles softly. "Your wife is a lucky woman."  
  
"I'm not married," you reply, shaking your head with a touch of sadness, unable to keep the wistfulness from creeping into your words.  
  
Mystified, whether by your words or your tone, she does not do anything but stare as you walk out the door.  
  
- -  
  
Finally arriving back at your apartment, you sink into the thickly cushioned couch, absentmindedly scratching your dog's ears as you lay there. Opening one eye, you throw a guilty look at the small bag sitting on the table. You know you should hide it before Eric came over and gave you grief about becoming "emotionally attached" to a co-worker. You also know that if Alice catches wind of the fact that you bought a co-worker a $50 Christmas present, but do not have even the slightest clue what you are going to get her this year, you would never hear the end of it.  
  
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But, somehow, ever since you met _her_, your best friend's warnings seem to just glide off you, and what your girlfriend thinks matters less and less.   
  
Sometimes you even wonder why you still go out with her. Because it's not Alice you think about when you see a particularly beautiful dress in the window of some boutique while walking home or when your mother calls and teases you about how being 33 and blessed with your father's Gallic good looks: dimples, green eyes and all, but still a bachelor.  
  
You know you should be thankful for your gorgeous blonde-haired and blue-eyed girlfriend. It's not hard to notice the jealous looks you get when you walk down the streets of Los Angeles with her on your arm. But sometimes, as you sit across from her in some dimly lit restaurant, listening to her conversation, you wonder why you were there.  
  
She's sweet and well mannered, the quintessence of a well-to-do, upper-class upbringing. Everyone you meet tells you that you're a lucky guy. But as you sit next to her while watching your favorite French film, immersing yourself in the beauty and intricacies of the symbolisms, and you see the blankly bored expression on her face, you wonder.  
  
She attempted Tolstoy after your repeated recommendations but never even got through the first 150 pages. You, on the other hand, had taken Russian in college and fell in love with the language and its literature. The professor told you that you had a gift for it and placed an application for Harvard's graduate program in your hands. Your love for it warred with your dream to follow in your father's footsteps to the point that you had filled out half of it before tucking it away in a corner, where it remained until several years afterwards when you had found it while cleaning through your stuff.  
  
She had been on numerous trips to France, but her interests lay more in the flashy streets and expensive stores of Paris, than the rugged wildness of the Normandy coast, where you had grown up. You once considered taking her to the small cottage belonging your grand-mère, where you spent most of the summers of your childhood. You had clambered over every inch of the house and the woods surrounding it, and claimed it as your own, the way only a 10-year-old boy can. The wildest scenes became familiar.  
  
As of recent, you find yourself wondering what you ever saw in her. It is almost incredible that you once found her as interesting as you did, because now you only see the incompatibility. You realize though that it is you who have changed, not her. Alice is, and forever will be, Alice.  
  
Try as you do, you can't suppress that feeling of disappointment when you see that pair of blue-eyes smiling at you from across the table or that head of blonde hair resting leaning on your shoulder. You can't help but wish for brown eyes staring into yours, framed by shoulder-length locks of glossy brown, instead.   
  
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With a sigh, you make a conscious effort to get up and make some dinner before you starve to death on the couch while just dreaming about _her_. Donovan follows, his tail wagging excitedly at the prospect of food.   
  
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Two hours later, you're still sitting in the kitchen, perched on one of the stools by the counter. Your dinner is cold, forgotten, half-eaten, and this time, it isn't because Eric decided to try his hand at cooking. Between the two of you, you usually do the cooking, thanks to the fact that your mother had made sure you were able to when you moved out, unable to stand the thought of her precious son living off pizza and take out for the next however-many years.   
  
No, the reason this time is the watch you hold in your hand. It belonged to your father, and before he died, he had given it to you.   
  
One of your most valued possessions, despite the fact that it had stopped almost of year ago. Or maybe _because _it had stopped almost a year ago.   
  
He told you once that it kept perfect time. Never once in twenty years did it lag. "You can keep your heart by this watch" had been your father's words.  
  
It stopped October 1. The day _she_ walked into your office and into your life.  
  
Why _she_ draws you is the same as the picture frame, the same as the watch. Inexplicable.  
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_Nous avons eu destiné._

_We had fate.  
  
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FF.net made that pretty "submit a review" button, so you should show your appreciation by clicking on it now and reviewing. *winks*


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